


meetmefree.com

by Bluer_skies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Sherlock, Disfigured John, Drug Use, M/M, Obsessive Sherlock, Online stalking, Serial Killer Sherlock, Stalker Sherlock, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluer_skies/pseuds/Bluer_skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently returned from the war disfigured and haunted by his inner demons, the last thing John Watson needed was a murderous stalker. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what he got.</p>
<p>(Tags are subject to change at any time.)</p>
<p>(This fic is now officially on Hiatus. I've tried to get my computer working, but last time smoke- yes, smoke!- started billowing out of it when I turned it on. On a positive note, all my work is safe on a memory stick.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been thinking about writing for a while, though I was hesitant to post it since it's not complete. This is me caving in.
> 
> (I don't have a beta and am unsure how to go about getting one, so please forgive any mistakes. Also, this is not Brit-picked, so forgive my ignorance regarding British English as appose to Americanized English as well.)

The woman’s flanks shivered from the stinging chill of her chair, naked skin flushed red from the cold and exposure. The saliva running down her chin and bare chest had by that time frozen into icy veins, shining almost beautifully in the intense lights around her, above her, even below her frostbitten chair, as did her tears. She was sobbing around the gull in her mouth, bloodshot eyes darting frantically to the room corners, the ceiling seams, anywhere but the man- the boy- standing silently before her.

The room itself was little more than an empty meat locker, recently renovated and presently free of butchered livestock or poultry. It served its current purpose well enough. After nearly two hours of utter motionlessness- of ominous silence- the young man stepped forward and removed the gull from the woman’s mouth, uncaring of the sharp rip of skin where her lips had sealed frozen over the cold metal.

She shrieked in pain and terror, a wordless, formless thing that caused the other to scrunch his face in disgust, perfect bow lips curling unpleasantly as though he’d bitten into something sour. He waited till she finally ceased her howling long enough to catch her breath before spitting out a tight _tedious_ and walking off towards the table, picking up a syringe and filling it with a clear fluid.

She shivered when first he spoke, voice low and so deep her stomach clenched in alarm at the sound of it, like a predator purring softly in her ear. “Screaming will be of no help to you. This particular room is basement level, under six feet of concrete. Formerly it functioned as a bomb shelter before it was bought and refurnished into a small restaurant establishment some time ago. The former owners ran into some financial troubles, however, and the new holders are currently in the process of renovating this site, so they haven’t yet managed to completely relocate.” He flicked the syringe and watched as a few bubbles appeared at the surface. “We have plenty of time before anyone returns to finish.”

Wide-eyed and failing miserably to control the shivers raking her body, the woman finally managed to speak, though haltingly. “Please. I don’t know what you want from me, but I’ll do anything. I won’t tell anyone. Just please, don’t kill me.” Her body seized suddenly as fresh sobs erupted from her bleeding, swollen lips. “Please. Please. Please. I’ll do anything.”

The man remained silent still, pulling a pair of latex gloves securely over his hands and running long, dexterous fingers across the various blades, scalpels and unnameable devices with loving care. He placed the syringe down beside a wickedly sharp 5 inch thin blade and instead picked up a bottle of viscous, blue gel, bringing it to his face to briefly examine the contents.

“Did you know-” The young man began softly, hard, lean body tense as a spring coil as he finally decided upon the 5 inch blade and palmed it fondly, admiring its shape and lightness. “That when I was 6, my brother showed me how to use a blade. Nothing serious, nothing harmful, just how to cut fruits and vegetables, sometimes the occasional slab of meat.” He stopped then, finger pressed sharply against the edge of the blade. “But as I started to experiment on my own, I began to wonder-” He stopped, as though he’d said too much, instead turning to face the woman once more and all but prowling towards her.

The woman trembled in earnest now, babbled nonsense escaping her lips as she watched the man come closer, his tight, sharp features all the sharper in the intense light of the room, harsh and clear and haunting. Skin so pale and eerily translucent is seemed to glow, eyes a thousand shades of gray and blue spiraling into two perfect points of intense focus.

As he took her chin in hand and rubbed the icy blood and spit from her lower lip, she pleaded one last time, a quiet _please_ that barely left her lips.

He leaned down, eyes hooded as he whispered softly against her ear. “Now, **sexylady378**. Shall we begin?”

* * *

 

_Load to see previous messages…_

 

**hunkalove22** : hey, sexy lady. whats wrong?

**sexylady378** : my bf just left me

**hunkalove22** : then he doesn’t deserve u

**hunkalove22** : ur better than that

**sexylady378** : ty hunkalove. i just wondered if it was b/c of me

**hunkalove22** : if he left u, hes the one w/ the problem

**sexylady378** : yeah. maybe

**sexylady378** : i know we were going 2 meet friday

**sexylady378** : but can i see u tomorrow instead?

**sexylady378** : ur the only person i talk to about my bf and i need a friend right now

**hunkalove22** : r u sure? u may feel safer with some1 u know

**hunkalove22** : we havent even met be4

**sexylady378** : its ok. i trust u

**hunkalove22** : ty. i trust u too

**hunkalove22** : at the park?

**sexylady378** : yeah. c u then

**hunkalove22** : c u then

 

_Conversation partner has disconnected…_


	2. Meet a Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos, comments and bookmarks! I would list you all individually, but you're all likely here to read a story and not a list of people you could look up yourselves at the top and bottom of your screen. Please enjoy either way! :)
> 
> (Still not beta-ed or Brit-picked, so be warned dear readers.)

The fact that he’d been shot had been bad enough, that it’d been so early in his military career only added salt to his still healing wounds. He’d been one of the best the queen’s army had to offer once, a decorated soldier and sought after doctor, steady-handed and steely-eyed. If you asked his superiors, they’d say he’d been darn near bloody perfect.

Then he’d made a mistake, let his emotions get the better of him and put himself in a situation he shouldn’t have fallen into no matter the situation. Of course, it’d been his duty and privilege to tend to those who’d fallen on the field, but he’d let his impulsive need to help blind him from protocol that day he’d run through the frontlines without backup. This mates had been right there, at his back, and he’d been too focused on getting to the downed man to alert his squad mates that he was heading out into the field and needed cover fire. He’d made a stupid mistake and ultimately paid for it.

One shot to the kneecap, another to the shoulder and his whole life had come tumbling down faster than the blood could spill out of him. He remembered vividly how beautiful the deep red color had been across the sunbaked sand, painted freely in arches around his shoulders and legs. He’d never been particularly poetic, but, be it the shock or his severe disorientation, in that moment he’d fancied himself angel-like on those blood sodden sands, wings spilling forth in great feathers of red. His last thought had been, _please God let me live_ , and it’d been granted.

He wondered about that sometimes, surviving, when he was alone in his shite room and trying not to flinch at the phantom pain in his nonexistent leg, shirt drenched through in sweat and gritting his teeth in an angry hiss. When he hobbled around on his crutches, or in his wheelchair on those days he had to travel especially far. When he cradled his gun in his hands or on the soft flesh of his lips or against the curve of his head, he thought about it. He thought about it a lot.

He never pulled the trigger though, because he had been the one who’d asked to be saved and he wasn’t a victim, he was a survivor. Still, no matter his reasoning, it was a tempting thought.

These days he spent a lot of time on the internet, researching job options now that his affliction had rendered him all but useless in any sort of proactive career, or keeping up with the latest news about the war. Those were his friends out there after all, his brothers-in-arms, and he’d never abandon his comrades, even when he was the one on the sidelines. It just wasn’t in his nature.

It was about 1am in the morning when he finally called it quits and closed the tabs of his so far fruitless job searches. Tired and weary, he leaned forward onto the desk, head cradled in his hands and closed his eyes, sighing in frustration. He held back the tears that burned red behind his eyelids, unwilling to let them fall even in the privacy of his own bedsit.

He thought about his sister and his mother for a time, wondering how they were doing and if his father would still be proud of him if he could see him now. He knew that his sister would still be out drinking at this time and that her fiancé, Clara, was starting to have second thoughts, but he still held out hope that one day Harry would put down the bottle and realize just how much Clara still loves her despite all the hurt she’s caused her.

It was as he was debating the benefits of a cuppa before bed that he heard a stray popup jump onto his screen, the silly little whooping sound catching his attention. When he looked up, a sign reading _meetmefree.com_ was blinking brightly at him and he didn’t even bother to stop the exasperated eye roll that flitted across his expression.

He was just hovering over the close sign when he stopped and though _to Hell with it, I’ve got nothing to lose_ , before clicking the site link instead and watching as a new tab sprang almost immediately into existence.

It was a simply organized site, he discovered with no small amount of satisfaction, with a username, a password, a profile picture, a favorites list and a _Start Conversation_ bar centered blatantly in the center of his screen. For a man as technology-challenged as John could be at times, it was a blessing to finally find a site he could navigate easily through.

He filled in the information quickly, but decided to forgo the profile picture, feeling too self-conscious of the dark smudges under his eyes.

He checked the time, found it was only a quarter past 1 am and decided that he would chat a bit and see how he liked it. It wasn’t like he had much else to do.

His first conversation was pleasant enough. It’d been a young woman who liked to eat chicken salad and her toast with ketchup- which was a bit strange but John didn’t hold it against her- and had to leave for her early morning shift.

The next had been a no show, his conversation partner having disconnected before he could even type a greeting.

The third had been pleasant as well, a college student majoring in English who’d merely wanted someone he didn’t know personally to critique his poetry homework. John had stayed on with that one for almost half an hour before the young man had apologized for having to leave, but that he needed to get some sleep before class that day. John had briefly considered favoriting him, but ultimately decided against it.

It was the fourth one however, that captured his attention.

 

* * *

 

 

_Conversation has started…_

 

**creamjumper8** : Hello.

**tommy14** : Hello. ASL?

With his limited experience, John was glad his first conversation partner had been understandingly patient with him. He’d been rather embarrassed when he’d had to ask for clarification that first time.

**creamjumper8** : 33, male, London.

**tommy14** : 31, male, London.

**tommy14** : How are you? Anything good on the telly, because I can’t find anything.

**creamjumper8** : Fine, and there’s never anything good on crap telly to begin with. Thinking about having a cuppa before bed.

**creamjumper8** : You?

**tommy14** : Having a cup of earl gray myself. No milk though. A bloody shame, that.

John smiled understandingly at the screen, a tinge of sympathy making it softer than was his usual expression these days.

**creamjumper8** : I take mine with milk, no sugar, so it wouldn’t do for me to go without I’m afraid.

**tommy14** : I take mine with sugar as well as milk, so ta to that.

**tommy14** : It’d still be nice though.

**creamjumper8** : Understandably.

There was a small pause in the conversation.

**tommy14** : Do you happen to be unemployed?

John froze, mouth gaping at the screen. It was a full 5 seconds before he managed to start typing out a reply, only to be interrupted halfway through.

**tommy14** : I’m terribly sorry. I was just curious.

**tommy14** : You see, I’m looking for work myself and haven’t had much luck lately.

**tommy14** : Just looking for some common ground.

John felt the tension leave his shoulders at that, but something in his mind still screamed with paranoia. He decided to approach this particular conversation with due caution. Gut feelings could save your life faster than a gun after all, and the army had taught him to trust those instincts.

**creamjumper8** : Please don’t worry about it. You were right though. How could you tell?

**tommy14** : A London man in his early thirties recently joins a public chat site at two in the morning this time of the season.

**tommy14** : I’m in the same situation, so I understand.

**creamjumper8** : That’s still bloody brilliant! I’d have never thought of that.

There is a long pause in which John keeps glancing down at the status bar to see if maybe his conversation partner has disconnected. He is just about to disconnect himself when he hears the familiar whooping sound of an incoming message.

**tommy14** : You’re not angry then? Most people just disconnect when I ask them.

**creamjumper8** : Well, it is a very personal question to be asking.

**creamjumper8** : It’s a bit not good.

**tommy14** : My apologies.

**creamjumper8** : No need to keep apologizing.

**creamjumper8** : So, why are you up this time of the night? I was job searching.

**tommy14** : Please don’t judge me, but I had a nightmare and couldn’t get back to sleep.

John winced in sympathy, understanding immediately. He wondered briefly if this Tommy fellow had been in the military as well, but decided not to share this information about himself.

**creamjumper8** : No judgment here. I get them myself often enough.

**tommy14** : Military?

John nearly startled out of his seat, but the second message right on the heels of the first calmed him again. Still, the caution remained, even grew to a continuous buzz humming softly in the back of his head.

**tommy14** : My grandfather was a military man, so I always ask when people say they have consistent nightmares.

**creamjumper8** : That makes a lot of sense.

**tommy14** : Of course it does.

John had an inkling that his intelligence had just been insulted- in fact he was sure of it- but he kept his calm, instead thinking over how he should approach this. He didn’t want to give too much about himself away after all.

**creamjumper8** : Were you in the military?

John looked over at the time again and sighed- in exasperation or relief, he just wasn’t sure at this point. It was late. His next message sent just as his conversation partner’s popped up.

**tommy14** : No. I had a traumatic childhood and sometimes relive my past traumas during sleep. Are you from the military?

**creamjumper8** : Sorry, but I’ve got to go. It’s late and I’ve an early start tomorrow.

**creamjumper8** : Bye.

 

_You have disconnected..._

 

* * *

 

 

It was a lie, of course, as he honestly had nothing to do the next day, but the other man didn’t have to know that. Besides, John’s paranoia was starting to kick into full gear and warning bells seemed to be aching all throughout his body.

He disconnected after his final message had been send, finding that bone-deep tension he’d not known was building suddenly released from his back and shoulders. He felt bad briefly for leaving the conversation after such personal information had been shared with him, but that only strengthened his resolve not to continue it.

Too personal. It had gotten too personal too fast and something just hadn’t felt right about the whole affair. John was glad to be rid of it.

With a shake of his head and a strong resolve to remove the conversation from his mind all together, John shut down his laptop and reached for his crutches, feeling the beginnings of an ache forming as he stretched his leg.

He’d make a cuppa later that morning.

* * *

Sherlock watched the screen with an eerily blank expression, eyes unreadable as he focused intently on the _Conversation partner has disconnected_ status bar just below his unfinished reply. His mouth twitched subtly after a few moments, again and again until finally it settled back into unnerving blankness. He brought his legs up to rest against his chest, steeling his fingers under his chin as he continued to watch the screen, as though his will alone would change the outcome of his hunt.

His mouth opened, just briefly, before he shut it again. His lips started twitching once more, eyes still focused on the status bar, a spiraling orb of silver and blue tightly bound by a ring of gray.

In a sudden bout of movement, Sherlock had opened a new tab and begun tracking down the service records of every unemployed military man recently invalidated from the war within the last 6 months. He placed special emphasis on age and location. He read the records of how they’d been invalidated home and concentrated on the most traumatic, finding which men had therapists. By the end of it, the list had been brought down to 3 men.

**Samuel G. Richards**

**John H. Watson**

**Brian L. Stans**

Sherlock pulled up the public profiles of the men, intently studying each picture, eyes rolling back and forth along the smooth surface of the screen again and again and again for nearly two hours. By the end of it, he ruled out Samuel and Brain by the cut of one’s beard and the brand of the other’s shirt, discarding their records with disinterest, before printing out the remaining files on John Watson. He printed three copies: one for the wall, one for his desk and the last to hold in his hands and study to his content.

He was an ordinary looking fellow, short of stature and prematurely lined about the eyes and mouth. If pressed, Sherlock would even say that John Watson was averagely attractive for his age, if one was looking to settle down and start a family that is. Besides the startling depth of the man’s eyes, there was nothing remarkable about him, not a hair uncombed to domesticated normality. He looked so harmless it almost made Sherlock’s stomach roll in something decidedly unpleasant.

_John Watson_ he mouthed, lips twitching as he stared at the tanned, blue-eyed face staring back with an equally unreadable expression. “Oh, you are clever.”

* * *

When John awoke after a mere 4 hours of fitful sleep, it was to the sensation of needles jabbing at the tender flesh of his left shoulder and non-existent right leg. He gritted his teeth as the prickling turned to a fire-hot ache, scorching him down to his very bone marrow. Were he a lesser man he may have screamed, or cried, but being who he was he gritted his teeth harder and clutched at the flesh of his shoulder, waiting for the pain to pass.

When it was over he panted quietly for a time, catching his breath before slowly sitting up and stretching the muscles in his back and leg with military precision. He rubbed at the lingering soreness in his shoulder and thigh muscles, other hand laid softly upon the gun hidden just beneath his pillow, wondering. At the end of it though, he took his hand from the pillow case and threw his leg over the side of the bed, watching how the muscles tensed and relaxed with every movement.

He debated the wheelchair, but decided to use the crutches instead. He didn’t much intend to leave the bedsit that day.

He drank a cup of tea, letting the warmth of it sooth his dry throat and settle the aches of his neck and chest. It was watery, the brand he’d managed to find for cheap not known for its quality, but it got the job done well enough. He’d had worse in the military after all, he could deal with what he got.

After a plain breakfast of toast he hobbled over to his laptop, careful as always not to trip, settled heavily into the chair and booted it up. As it loaded he brainstormed a list of places he hadn’t yet applied to, somewhere they’d have employment for a weary war veteran with a missing leg and bad shoulder. It seemed not to be however, for he was still at a loss for how to further approach the problem at hand. So in the end, he browsed through the internet, nothing specific in mind.

Three times the _meetmefree.com_ popup had made an appearance, and three times it was ignored. It wasn’t that he was still shaken from his previous encounter the night before, he just honestly wasn’t interested in chatting with anyone at the moment.

Instead he watched porn for an hour, finally giving up with a sigh of frustration when his usual sites failed to produce the desired results. He rubbed at his brows, flustered but not aroused, wondering if it was the depression or stress destroying his libido. Reluctant as he was to mention it to anyone, John briefly entertained that thought of sharing with his therapist, if only to have a second opinion. Predictably however, he ultimately chose not to.

Turning the computer off, he limped to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards before settling on reorganizing his meager rations. Cheap coffee, cheap tea, beans, half-decent soup, jam, bread, a few canned vegetables and crackers. His fridge was not much better, and he was out of butter.

After that he shuffled back to his computer, turned it on and pulled up a few job finder sites he’d visited the other day to find them as unproductive as ever.

The _meetmefree.com_ popup sprung up once more with its telltale whoop, blinking brightly at him. He groaned loudly before hitting the close button.

Much as he was loath to admit it, he decided the wheelchair was in order. So, with teeth gritted, he settled himself into the wheelchair placed non-obstructively in the corner of his bedsit, shoulder sagging in relief as his weight was taken off of it. He placed his remaining foot on the foot pad and propped his crutches against the wall, lips thinning as he looked at them.

“Come on old boy.” John whispered to himself after a moment of staring intently at his crutches. “I could have lost my arm as well.” And with that he rolled himself out his door, locked it behind him and was off.

* * *

Getting out of the bedsit for a bit had been a good idea, John decided. The fresh air helped to clear his head and the sight of people going about their business- even greeting him every so often- made him feel less isolated, if only for a few hours. For though John didn’t personally know any of these people, it was nice to hear their voices. He had even managed to toss the ball a few times with a toddler with the parents not 10 yards away, unconcerned with the crippled man so close to their child while they were nearby.

Soon, however, he begun to feel drained, having had a late night the night before and little physical activity over the last few weeks. He left the child with a warm smile that was returned and a nod towards the parents, though they hardly noticed his departure at all. Shortly after, he decided a quick kip near the pond was in order, perhaps near a lovely tree he’d spotted a while back.

Fortune seemed to favor him for a time, since he returned to find the place empty save the company of a few soft-feathered birds, a nice patch of sun shining through the leaves. It was almost surreal, the way the scene was laid out before him, smooth and green and blue in the sunlight. In that moment, he felt almost at peace, despite the sight of concrete and traffic not two hundred yards in the distance. He had to smile, despite the lingering soreness in his shoulder.

He wished he’d brought bread, if only to feed the birds.

After fussing about for a few moments, rearranging himself so that his back was to the sun, tired eyes gazing out over the pond, he took a deep breath and closed his heavy eyes. Within three minutes he fell into a light doze, face finally relaxed to a gentle expression as the sun warmed his back and cool air filled his lungs. He looked almost content there, as though untouched by hardship or grief.

Off in the distance, a tall, willowy figure stood darkly against the London backdrop, watching how the good doctor slept so peacefully across the pond, small and meek and soft looking in the sunlight. He snapped a picture, then two, then five, before melting back into the crowd of tourists with his camera clutched possessively to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning to those who intend to keep reading, updates should not be expected to arise as quickly as this one did. I just happened to have this mostly typed out beforehand and all it needed was some editing. Apologies.


	3. Clicking the Follow Button

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many kudos, bookmarks and comments now! Thank you all so much!
> 
> (Still not beta-ed or Brit-picked.)

Sherlock was perched at his desk, legs crossed, silent and unmoving save the rapid shift of his thumb over his phone screen, eyes following with rapt interest. His face was unnervingly blank, one hand propped under his chin as he continued to shift through his phone gallery. Eighty-three taken in all, taken over the course of four days. Gifts from his homeless network, near hourly updates on where the doctor is going, who he’s seeing, what he’s doing. It wasn’t enough.

Another text message pops up, reading _1 image attachment_. It’s of John, petting a fat, gray pup with his left hand, holding a small treat over his head with the right. He’s smiling softly, face deeply lined and tired, but infinitely kind in that captured moment. Sherlock immediately favorites it, noting the building in the background and determining the man’s location. He requests another. He gets it.

It’s as he’s focusing on the dog tags on the pup’s collar that his attention is suddenly torn away, drawn to the front of the room where his English teacher is calling his name- and apparently has for some time. He frowns, something dark and foreboding on such a sharp face, eyes narrowed to slits, before he manages to smooth it over to impassiveness.

“Yes, Professor.” The teacher’s lips part, only for Sherlock to interrupt after a brief glance over the tilt of the professor’s head and the smear of ink on his wrist. “It’s a social commentary on civil unrest in the eighteen hundreds, using the perspectives of aristocratic women to highlight the effect it had on domestic affairs in the higher classes.”

After a moment of speechless silence, the teacher smiles, pride in his tone as he says, _very good Mr. Holmes_ , and moves on. Sherlock wants to sneer at the older man, to put his teeth to his throat and stop that annoying voice. In fact, he thinks he might after the fool’s usefulness has ended.

He looks back down at his mobile screen, finding it blank from disuse. Deep, searing anger swells up in his throat as he turns the phone back on, scrolling though his pictures to find the one with John and the pup. He glances back at the teacher, face blank but eyes burning like cold fire with hate. He decides that ripping the man’s throat out- while satisfyingly bloody- was insufficient. He’d surgically remove it while the man was still conscious. That would do nicely.

It isn’t until class lets out for the day that Sherlock gets another text, this time from his brother. He dismisses it readily enough, instead making a detailed map of John’s movements in his mind palace, retracing the taken path with obsessive care. He notices how John likes to move counterclockwise, unconsciously favoring his left arm while in the wheelchair. He files this information away for later use.

He debates going back to his dorm, thinks better of it, but in the ends goes there anyway on a whim. His eyes never leave his phone screen as he makes his way to the housing area, this time looking up weather patterns and wondering if he’ll be able to get a picture of John in the rain. Crutches or wheelchair, it doesn’t matter, but Sherlock suddenly needs just such a picture. With his steely eyes and broken body, the man would be the poster boy of tragedy.

At his dorm the boy doesn’t pause for much else save to lock his door before he’s gliding over to his laptop on light, dancer’s feet, phone placed gently beside him as he boots it up. He is briefly struck by how impersonal it all is, the way he watches this man from a distance, speaks to him online with an endless assembly of premade usernames. He finds he doesn’t like it. It’s been only a week since first he conversed with the doctor online, but already he finds himself fascinated by the man.

John Watson is an endless list of contradictions. He is steely-eyed and broken-bodied, drinks tea like a gentlemen and chugs beer like a ruffian. He wears soft, cashmere jumpers yet keeps a gun at his bedside, is weary of his life yet cares for everyone in it. Smiles for everyone but himself, yet is guarded around anyone who smiles back. Sherlock is well and truly captivated by this doctor and soldier, this perfect little puzzle.

He reaches into his drawer, opens the small, white package within and preps the revealed needle as the computer finishes booting, running his fingers tenderly against the plastic body of it. He decides cocaine will be his vice for the day, taking out the stashed solution with an almost smile.

He has just finished preparing the syringe for injection when another text arrives, from his brother as expected. He is about to dismiss it once more, when something catches his attention.

_Interesting, this Watson fellow. –MH_

Watson, and like that Sherlock knows he’s caught. Putting the needle carefully down on its package, the boy texts back, fingers pressing hard upon the keys, annoyed.

_Piss off. –SH_

_Childish. Be sure to complete your homework before you continue watching this doctor of yours. –MH_

Sherlock huffs and doesn’t reply. Another text arrives nonetheless, but this time there’s an attachment. It’s John, a high definition profile picture of him leaning against the bridge railing, wheelchair pushed out behind him and shoulders set, staring out over the Thames. The last dregs of sunlight are shining against him, against his face, painting his body red as blood and making him glow. Sherlock all but gasps at it, fingers tightening around the mobile until his knuckles are white.

_Put down the needle and do your homework. –MH_

It’s a promise, and Sherlock thinks that maybe there’s a reason so many young children love their older brothers. As it is, he gives the needle one last yearning glance before knocking it away and dismissing its presence all together. He takes out a school issued textbook for the first time in three years and starts from beginning to end, finishing it in three hours.

He finds a picture of John on his desk the next day, printed and laminated and beautiful and Sherlock can’t stop running his fingers along the frame, the smooth surface. Somehow, someway, his brother has given him a picture of John smiling at the camera, smiling at him. The sun is hidden behind heavy clouds and the entire photo is cast an eerie gray shade, about to rain, but those dark blue eyes are crinkling at the edges and his lips are curved slightly.

Sherlock finds that he might still harbor some affection his big brother after all, if only a little.

* * *

 

He’s shaking like a newborn infant, muscles quivering and stomach rolling while the burn of vomit prickles in the back of his nose. The bone deep ache of longing gnaws at him relentlessly, his brilliant mind whispering an endless stream of justifications and reassurances that just one more fix, one more hit and he’ll be done with it forever. Just one more and then everything will be fine, and though he knows this isn’t true, it doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

There are angry red scratch marks down his wrists these days, long, puffy, ugly things that make a grim contrast against his pale skin. They are crawling up his arms and nestled across his thighs, his belly, his chest and anything else he can reach when the mood strikes him. Bloodstains on his sheets speak of the flesh-deep bite marks lining the curve his forearm, rust-brown streaks of iron he likes to press his face against some nights. As things stand, he is the poster child of self-harm, and he wonders what John would think if he saw him this way.

Detoxing is everything he’d expected it to be, but knowing had not quite prepared him for the reality of it. He craves and he wants in a way he’s never craved or wanted before, almost the entirety of his mind pushing for that moment the needle point slips under his skin and injects his chosen poison right into his veins. Some nights, he fancies he can still feel a phantom needle piercing him at the arms or thighs.

There is no needle though, just a painfully skinny boy in an empty room clutching his phone tighter and tighter as the days crawl by and his skin grows whiter from insomnia and lack of sunlight. He is more of a ghost now then he ever thought possible, sunken-eyed and pale as he is, save the lines of red trailing his body. It is ghastly and he’s disgusted with himself.

He’s never liked being weak, of allowing his transport to effect the flow of his mind. It’s not something he’s ever been accepting of and he’s certain he’s deep in denial regarding the severity of his condition.

When the shaking finally subsides long enough for Sherlock to just breathe, it’s far past midnight, a sliver of starlight gliding across the darkened carpets to stretch across the far wall. He rubs his fingers mindlessly, compulsively along his mobile’s smooth surface as his eyes lock upon his wall, John’s wall, with its bright, glossy photos, freshly printed military and medical records, diplomas and a birth certificate and any-everything else he can bribe his brother into getting so long as he remains clean. He watches how those sad, solid, haunting blue eyes gaze back at him from under the glare of starlight.

“If you saw me this way.” Sherlock mutters to the blood-smeared portraits nestled along the wall. _Would I be a fascination for you, dripping with blood and desperation? Would you pity me?_

Sherlock lifts himself from his bed, taking a moment to admire the fresh blood blots patterned darkly across the once white sheets, before he stumbles to the light-bathed wall, unsteady from blood loss. He puts his red smeared hands on the wall for balance and rests his forehead against the many still faces staring unseeingly out at him from their nest of photos. He smells the stale sweat and blood from days passed strongly on them, smeared across their shining surfaces. He can almost taste the bitter irony-salt in the air.

He stays like that for hours, till the starlight turns to sunlight and the sting of daybreak scorches his eyes.

* * *

 

There are times when John feels that his life has become an endless list of ‘ _should have_ ’s and ‘ _could have been_ ’s. Sometimes, he just lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling, rubbing his shoulder and pointedly ignoring his non-existent leg, wondering what life could have been had he still had it. He doesn’t kiss his gun good morning anymore though, and things have been looking noticeably less bleak than before, even hopeful on his better days.

While he may never practice medicine again- and he understands the irony of why this is so- he has found work as a writer, working from the comfort of his bedsit for a reasonable enough wage. As it stands, in a few more months he’ll have saved enough to put a down payment on a decent apartment. He’s almost giddy at the prospect, but as ever the sensible side of his mind tones it down. Day by day, that’s the motto he lives by these days and it’s served him well over the last few weeks.

He is just submitting his latest commission when- despite blockers and defense-ware alike- that ever occurring _meetmefree.com_ popup whoops into existence on his screen, plastering itself across his work. He frowns, closing it- only for it to pop back up a few seconds later. He all but snarls as he closes it again.

He’d been accommodating at first, closing it with due grace when he was busy and occasionally even entering the site to shave off some of the boredom when he had a bit of free time. It had been almost relaxing in the beginning, a little surprise added to his life two or three times a day. Now though, John was just getting fed up with it.

The popup had begun to arise more frequently; 26 to 32 times a day, blocking his work and slowing his computer processes. If he didn’t know better, he’d say someone had made it their personal mission to keep him on that damn site every second of everyday. Honestly, he was wary of any computer program that had the timing the popup seemed to, but that could just be his paranoia acting up again.

It’d been two months since he’d first created a profile on the site, and for the last two weeks he’d found himself becoming less and less keen on spending time on it. With his new job eating up about five hours of his day and his daily outings becoming increasingly more common, he found he had neither the time nor the motivation to chat with strangers on the web. This is something he actually feels pretty damn proud about too.

He presses the submit link just as another popup starts blinking brightly upon his screen, replacing the tab he just closed moments before. Running a hand through his hair, he closes it and decides another outing is in order to work off some of the tension building in his shoulders and lower back. It’s something that’s been happening a lot lately, and no matter how many times John tells himself it’s just his paranoia acting up, he feels watched- all the time- no matter where he goes or what he does. It’s been making him irritable of late, snippy and sometimes unpleasant.

He debates taking his crutches, but notices the dark gray of the light outside his window and decides his wheelchair and an umbrella are the way to go.

* * *

 

He thinks about how he’ll kill John often. Sometimes he considers peeling the doctor’s skin in one piece and sewing it over those delicate bones once it’s been soaked thoroughly in preservatives. He contemplates taking every organ in the doctor’s small body and keeping them under his bed in a cooler. He deliberates poisoning the doctor and keeping the body in an ice state, a perfect statue frozen for eternity. He’d do anything, as long as he’d always have the doctor close. These days, he doesn’t know how he ever managed without the former soldier before he’d found him, but he’s beginning to understand that doing so in the future is no longer an option at this point.

It’d been nearly five months since he’d first chatted with the good doctor, two since he’d been released from the rehab clinic, but nearly a month since he’d last made any sort of contact with him. It was clear to Sherlock that John was starting to pull away from the lure of online chatting sites, and while this should not have alarmed Sherlock in the slightest, he found himself almost panicking at the prospect of losing connection with John in any way. Which only served to unsettle the boy further, because he wasn’t supposed to feel this way once the subject lost interest in the site.

The site was just the bait, the hunting grounds by which Sherlock chose his victims. Every once in a while he’d manage to talk his victims into meeting up with him, yes, but first and foremost he just acquired a name and started his planning once the target was identified. The site was only supposed to be his search engine of available persons, people so desperate for social contact that they’d resort to an anonymous site of unknown origins to get it. Unremarkable people with few friends or family to remember them when they’re gone, people he could easily make disappear.

John though. Somehow, the former soldier had managed to become more than just a flighty fancy to the young man, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to determine when he’d gone from an interesting subject to the focal point within his life, though he had a few guesses. What it all boiled down to, Sherlock had come to understand, was that John made him think faster, work harder, push further then he’d ever had to before. John made Sherlock better than what he once was, gave him no choice but to become better.

It wasn’t that John Watson was particularly difficult to track or watch or catch, the essence of his person wasn’t even particularly difficult to comprehend given enough time to observe. When all was say and done, it all came down to Sherlock having never wanted anyone the way he wanted the good doctor. Mentally, emotionally, even _physically_ at times when his transport craved the warmth of another body beside its own. It wasn’t even about sex- it never had been- just the touch of foreign skin reaffirming his existence against another was enough.

He gone clean for John after all. He’d suffered through the detoxing process with nothing but his will and an endless sea of photos marching across all four painfully solid walls of his room by the end of it, thousands of unfathomable blue eyes watching over him as he bared his teeth like a feral beast and panted and held back tears of desperate, aching want. He spent nearly four months of his life trapped in a room with pain, boredom and John as his only companions, so his growing obsession with the man was to be expected.

Even understanding all this, Sherlock still finds himself watching the Alerts list of his website watch panel, ignoring the telltale glow of highlighted usernames notifying him to other site users logging onto their computers. Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-eight people to choose from at any given time, but the one man he wants remains frustratingly out of reach, online but unreceptive to Sherlock’s numerously reoccurring site advertisements. The dullness of John’s icon taunts Sherlock, a dark spot silently present amidst a sea of flashing light.

In the end, he chooses three.

* * *

 

 

 

_Conversation has started…_

 

**Golfman_2:** ASL?

**hit_the_ball:** Golfman! Long time no chat, mate.

**Golfman_2:** Where’ve u been? Haven’t heard from u 4 months.

**hit_the_ball:** Sorry mate, but my friend broke his leg. U know how it is.

 

* * *

 

 

_Conversation has started…_

 

**ShyCookieGirl:** hi! do you like spirk?

**Lollypop4:** oh cookie my dearest. it has been too long! where have you been?

**ShyCookieGirl:** mom turned my internet off! fml

**Lollypop4:** awwww D:

 

* * *

 

 

_Conversation has started…_

 

**GodIsGoodAllTheTime:** Hello?

**Dance_solo:** How have you been these last few months? My mother has been ill and I’ve been taking care of her.

**GodIsGoodAllTheTime:** The Lord be with you, child. You are a good fellow. I’ll be sure to pray for her.

**Dance_solo:** Thank you.

 

* * *

 

Let the hunt begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question to the readers: Does Sherlock seem scary/unnerving enough for you? My friend thinks so, but I'd much appreciate your guys' opinion.


	4. Gift Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning: Still not betaed or Brit-picked. Read at your own risk.)

Sherlock runs his long fingers through the glossy brown locks under his hands, feeling the strength and healthy quality in each strain against the sensitive skin of his palms. He observes the pleasant bounce of it when he pulls a strand straight and releases and finds it adequate.

“Well cared for. Monthly trimmings and daily rinsing, though shampooed and conditioned every two- three days. Ah. Sensitive hair that becomes brittle easily. Chemical contact would need to be limited then.” Sherlock leans back somewhat, fingers trailing though the hair as he observes the blemishes and lines of the tear-stained face before him. “Habit learned from the mother. A hairdresser specializing in more organic means of hair care. Hereditary? Most certainly.”

He takes a strain and rubs it between thumb and forefinger, testing its softness. He gets a distressed sniffle from the man sprawled limp over the bench, trapped in paralysis save the rapid fluttering of his eyelids.

Sherlock frowns, looking directly into the man’s amber-brown eyes, cold, predatory gaze glistening almost inhumanly under the bright, sterile lights of the university lab. The long, narrow shape of his face catches the light at sharp angles, giving his pale skin an eerie glow where the shadows have not reached. He looks surreal.

“Do shut up. If your hair is found to be of greater quality than hers-” He points towards a young woman on the bench over (18 years of age, single, lives alone) laying just as unwillingly still as the man under his immediate scrutiny. “-then I’ll exchange it for your life. I don’t care who it is either way. I just need a test subject and a gift of a _sentimental_ -” He sneers the word like some bitter poison. “-nature. That’s what people do to show they desire friendship, don’t they? Give a gift?”

The man beneath him is giving him an expression of disbelief, and if possible, even greater fear. It says _‘how does one reason for their life with a mad man?’_ , but more than that it asks ‘ _how do sick bastards like you actually exist?’_

The boy runs his fingers through the silky hair again, ignoring the choked off muffles of the man hyperventilating behind his gag. It is an unevenly pitched and unattractive noise that grates on the edges of Sherlock’s mind like sandpaper, curling his lip sharply in displeasure.

Despite the superior quality of the man’s hair, Sherlock is tempted to kill him out of spite, to tie a wire around his neck and pull till the throat collapses and the comforting wet snap of bone soothes the itching of his brain. But then he remembers those sad blue eyes watching down at him from the photos in his room, judging his worth with unblinking righteousness.

Sherlock does not want to stand before the wall again and be found lacking. Not again. Not ever.

He’s changed himself once for John Watson already, suffered indignities for the approval of those sad blue eyes staring down at him in all their moods and unfathomable shades. If he could do it once, he can do it again. John is worth it after all. John, who is unbearably lonely in his bedsit and his life yet still manages to make Sherlock better just by breathing.

Sometimes, Sherlock wishes he could capture John’s breath in a beaker, analyze it and find what it is that makes Sherlock feel so alive just knowing it’s there. He makes note to do so before he takes John’s life, to obtain everything he can of John before taking his life.

Little pieces of John to carry in his pocket, always. The thought makes him smile and strengthens his resolve.

Sherlock takes the higher path. He tells his captives of his decision and informs the woman that although she’s been judged and found lacking, she’d been at least marginally useful and therefore would be rewarded the relief of a numbing sedative as her body was surgically dismembered for his scientific pursuits.

Mercy, something he’s learned from John as well as self-control. What a strange, marvel thing it is. To know that he can hold a life in his hands and choose its fate, to judge it’s worth and give reward or punishment as he sees fit.

It feels brilliant, indescribably so.

He wonders if John felt this way in the army. So very powerful as he chose who lived and who died under his competent, callused hands; who had been found worthy of his attentions. A little bit of God wrapped up in military attire for the soldiers to look up at and plead, ‘ _please let me live_ ’ and ‘ _please don’t shoot me_ ’.

Sherlock may not be a religious man, but he finds he likes that thought. It’s enough to almost make him groan in delight, the image of John looking someone in the eye and laying down their final judgment before pulling the trigger. A quick, merciful end as is his preference.

It’s with a pleased quirk at the edge of his lips that he injects the woman with the sedative solution, watching as her tense muscles ease and her frightened eyes glaze over unseeingly. Making her nothing more than a living doll under his inquisitive hands.

He, too, can be a merciful God.

* * *

 

Despite waking from a nightmare that had him gagging back screams, it was a nice day, bright, cool and fresh with just a hint of breeze and John is in a fantastic mood. His writing had finally caught on in the online community- his secret agent series especially- and there’s been speculation that his work is being considered for official publication.

He’s also joined a volunteer clinic not too far from his bedsit, using his medical degree for the first time in nearly a year as it was meant to. He may not be a surgeon anymore, and the work can be dreary on the best of days, but he can proudly say that he’s doing what he was meant to; providing the best medical assistance he is capable to families in need.

The irony of it all is that he’d been passing by the clinic for months and not noticed it over the haze of his depression all that time. It was almost enough to make him laugh, though not the sane kind.

Life might not be perfect, but John’s never needed more than a good cuppa and the knowledge of a job well-done to get him though the day. As far as John’s concerned, his life is starting to look up, and if things keep moving as they have been he may even find something exciting to do one of these days.

God he hopes so. Surviving he may be, but he’s not particularly happy with his current situation.

Still, if there’s one thing he could do without it’d be the stairs leading to the front of the clinic- or just stairs as a whole. Bloody things seem to mock him at every turn, throwing his inadequacies in his face with each daunting step stretched just beyond his capabilities. The bane of his existence, his arch-nemesis (if people had arch-nemesis’ that is).

Like now. He’s been working at the volunteer clinic for a while at this point so he’d have thought he’d have gotten over the issue, or at least come to grips with it. Thing is, he hasn’t and it frustrates him that he can’t seem to move on from it.

He is a man of sensibility and integrity though, so though it stings him in ways he cannot reasonably justify, he wheels himself up the side ramp with silent dignity and into the center. He is needed here, in this understaffed, chaotic place, and he will not be laid low by five unmoving slabs of concrete no higher than his waist. He will not.

The air inside the center is stuffy, hot in a way that is not entirely pleasant despite the cold weather of the season. It’s the kind of warmth that comes from sweating bodies and sour breath being packed tightly into a small space, humid and primal. It reminds John of the medical tends in Afghanistan, and he thinks it should not comfort him as much as it does.

Again, as he has done many times, he decides not to inform his therapist of this not quite healthy realization. She would not understand anyway.

The crowd of people blocking his way to the back counters is nearly unbearable, adults crowding in from above and tots scurrying about below with sticky fingers and runny noses John knows half the mothers present believe is the beginning of a brain tumor. Were he not so distracted avoiding being elbowed in the face he would have snorted at the sad reality of the average patient’s capacity for nonsense.

When a particularly harried nurse named Susan notices him rolling to the counter, her expression instantly softens in relief and the curve of her shoulders relax in a way John knows is unintentional. Within moments she is at his side, assessing his condition after having come from the cold and insisting she take his coat so that he can get to work in haste and provide relief for Douglas, whose barely standing on his own power by that point in the day.

John gives a small sigh of exasperated fondness. Douglas regularly took evenings and nightshifts, but if left unattended would not leave till noon the next day if the morning staff were too inexperienced to know his tells and force him to leave. Not for the first time John was tempted to pull rank (a throwback to his army days which he no longer has, though his Captain’s voice still seems to garter respect) and order the man to leave for the day and get some bloody sleep.

God, he missed being able to standup straight and look people eye to eye. At least then he wouldn’t feel the ridiculousness of ordering up at people from the height of a damn nine year old.

John shakes his head. No, he did _not_ want to go down that train of thought. It was just a psychotic breakdown waiting to happen and Susan looked concerned enough about life in general without losing her favored John-shaped crutch. He could make it through this, just one step at a time.

Unware of the doctor’s dark musings, Susan’s quick to announce his presence to the other volunteer nurses and they immediately fall in line under his guiding presence. It is obvious to John that they are an especially inexperienced batch of potentials, young and still getting accustom to the smell of warm blood, but they are eager to help and seem to gain confidence under his no nonsense leadership.

After he gets the staff more or less back on their feet and the more severely fatigued ones into backroom cots, he slips into the furthest backrooms and looks for Douglas, intent of giving the overzealous prat a good, stern talking to about self-care and pacing one’s self.

And John thinks, not for the first time but with far more conviction this time that everything’s going to be okay.

* * *

 

_Sentiment, brother dear. How unbecoming of you. –MH_

_Piss off and quit spying on me. –SH_

Then, in a particularly childish stint, Sherlock adds.

_Fat arse. –SH_

_Language, little brother. Mummy would be so disappointed. –MH_

Lips curled into a feral snarl, Sherlock digs his claws in as painfully as he can. Aiming to wound, to maim, to kill.

_Yes, and Mummy’s dead. -SH_

The youth can all but feel the weight of his brother’s disapproval over the phone at the little reminder and for a moment wonders if he’s finally pushed Mycroft too far and Scotland Yard will be collecting his remains out of the Thames by this time tomorrow. Then he decides he couldn’t care less and turns his mobile to vibrate with a vindictive jab before stuffing it in his pocket. He’s not in the mood to deal with his mother-henning sibling (not that he ever was, but that was a moot point in Sherlock’s not inconsiderable opinion) and has other things to worry about. Namely, what color and texture would best meet the doctor’s approval.

As he’s well aware, he’ll never have a second chance to make a first impression and needs to get this right. If he didn’t, things were bound to get awkward very fast and that was the last thing he wanted.

This in mind, Sherlock turns his attention back to the rows of silks and satin laid out before him a great, sweeping canvases of color, eyeing the tasteful sheen of them with an experienced eye. Just the sight of such lovely perfection is enough to make his fingertips tingle in a most delightful sensation, but only for a moment.

There were many he desires to present to John, soft colors to sooth his complexion and give him the glow of guiltlessness, darker colors to clash against the scars of his body, proud and bold and telling against his skin. In the end though, he knew he would be forced choose neither and that thought burned him profoundly, the knowledge that he could give no more than what was expected of a stranger.

As though Sherlock had not spent nearly a year observing him, studying his habits and every waking moment. As though he didn’t know the man more intimately than his own deadbeat mother and alcoholic sister. As though the man did not breathe life into him with every breath he pulled though his pristine lungs.

Sherlock is just able to catch himself before he tears into the delicate fabric under his hands, but it is a near thing and leaves the boy unsatisfied and unexplainably voracious for stimulus. It would not do to draw attention to himself though, not now when he is about to leave himself so very vulnerable to the whims of another, so he settles himself one nerve at a time.

Smoothly, twisting his expression to the most gentle he can manage with his sharp features, Sherlock waves over the attention of the shop owner and asks softly. “Have you a selection of wool, sir? I’ve a most particular friend who insists such purchases be done before the season has passed.”

Be it the posh cadence of his speech or the open politeness of his features, the man is quick to smile and lead Sherlock to a backroom lined with clothes not yet displayed for the public with very little prompting. He explains that the shop is new and that not everything has been put into inventory yet, but if Sherlock would like he’ll give him a purchase under the counter.

Sherlock knows this all already, knows the man is low of funds after opening this shop and needs pocket money to support his ever-increasing shopping addiction. More than that though, Sherlock knows the man is willing to sell off the record to get it. Just the kind of desperate sod he needs to stay under the radar if things go south and inquiries begin popping up.

In truth, it would be child’s play for the boy to pickpocket the needed material, but he merely keeps a smile on his face and shams a look of utmost gratitude towards the shop owner for his _generosity_. He knows John disapproves of theft after all, and the thought of giving the doctor something he would disapprove of (even in theory) sits wrong with the young man.

It is a strange thing, sentiment. That now, for him, it would not due to stain the doctor’s hands with such petty injustices as pickpocketing. Hateful even. Something he had never cared to consider in the past.

He has become selective, Sherlock realizes. Not just of physical quality, but of implied representation and meaning, like a code being flashed across the backs of his eyelids, telling him that this is the object and this is what it says about a person’s heart. For the first time, Sherlock is beginning to understand how to read between the lines of motivations, not just their origins and end conclusions.

In a way, Sherlock thinks he might be starting to appreciate the advantages of understanding sentiment, not just for enabling manipulation, but shaping. Controlling a person’s behavior instead of their actions, until the behaviors themselves become the source of the desired actions.

This revelation is rather remarkable to a boy who’s only ever seen the world as cause and effect, action and reaction, red is red and blue is blue and purple doesn’t exist in this context unless stated otherwise. And as he comes to see the world in this new light of mixing colors and cross-wires he wonders.

_What is John Watson shaping me into?_

* * *

By the time John’s finished his shift he can feel the bone-deep ache in his thighs and shoulder beginning to spread a sharp, acidic burn from fingertip to toe, like an army of fire ants biting along the supple flesh of his body (not that he’s ever been bitten by a fire ant, but he imagines it would feel much the same). It is a sensation he is not unfamiliar with, has even come to expect, but it’s never boded well for the night that follows and already he can feel the first wave of cold sweat prickling at the nap of his neck.

As much as John Watson has ever shied away from anything, he finds he dreads the dreams to come with a fear so intense and so irrational it may as well be a phobia, and he hates himself for it. For being so damaged, so _broken_.

Lost in his internal strife as he is, John barely catches the tail end of what Susan was trying to tell him from the doorway, haired tussled up in a bun and nighties soft and worn across the gentle curve of her hips. For a moment, John’s eyes wonder absently at the unexpected plushness of those hips before he realizes he didn’t quite catch her meaning.

He rubs his eyes, pushing his palms to the tender lids of his eyes till he sees red and letting his fatigue show as he asks. “Sorry, but can you repeat that?”

She sighs but does little else save shift her feet as she repeats. “You have a package. Don’t know why, though.” She shrugs her shoulders, tired but still brimming with spirit made barely docile by the call of sleep. “Didn’t know we got postage here.”

“Neither did I.” John says, shifting his wheelchair to face the nurse more fully. “Please get some sleep, Susie. I’ll be sure to pick it up on my way out.” He tries to give her an encouraging smile, but it just comes out tired and strained.

She eyes him with something like skepticism, only less disbelieving and more exasperated. “You could sleep here, you know. Pepper and Brian are here as well, but there’s a spare cot across the hall.” Her frown deepens then, worry making her appear older. “I don’t like the thought of you wandering the streets at night. Especially not with that serial killer still running about.”

John thinks he should feel angered at her words, insulted by her insinuation that he can’t take care of himself, but he’s not. Instead, he’s tired and aching and maybe even a little happy that she cares at all and just wants to curl up in the privacy of his bedsit so he can scream himself hoarse in peace.

He doesn’t tell her any of that though- probably wouldn’t even if he was in a talkative mood- merely says. “You don’t have to worry. Nothing ever happens to me.” And if his eyes seem a little deader as he says those words, well, John can always plead exhaustion.

She gives him a look like she wants to argue but holds her tongue, if just by the tip. He’s an adult after all and she respects that, even if she thinks he’s an idiot sometimes and should start taking his own advice.

“Alright.” She finally sighs after a moment of silence. “Just make sure you bundle up. I’ll bring you something warmer to wear and the package while I’m at it.” With that she steps back into the hall and disappears, giving John a few more blessed minutes to himself.

It’s strange, because in that moment John thinks he might love Susan a little, and for the first time in months, he’s fine with that. Perfectly, fine with it.

 

* * *

 

**To: Dr. John Watson**

_**Put this under your neck and it should reduce the tension in your shoulders and help you sleep. -SH** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Sherlock is actually rather enjoyable to write because he has so much room for development and interpretation since he's hasn't grown into his ways yet. He's also kind of off in the head, so that's a win as well.
> 
> Next chapter, things start happening.
> 
> (I'll go back and do some more editing later, but for now it's time to sleep. Night.)

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how this will be received, but hopefully it's enjoyable as a guilty pleasure if nothing else.
> 
> (Bonus! What movie was referenced in this chapter?)


End file.
